


Afghanistan or Iraq?

by inkstainedcas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Drabble, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, commission, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:04:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkstainedcas/pseuds/inkstainedcas
Summary: Short commission fic about an alternate meeting between the boys.Prompt: "Afghanistan or Iraq?" + alternate meeting





	

**Author's Note:**

> Commission info: inkstainedfic.tumblr.com/commissions  
> Contact me there or at dannyraerp@gmail.com :)  
> Kudos appreciated!!

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John stares at the man before him, dumbstruck. “Excuse me?”

“Where did you serve?”

John racks his brain, wondering if he should remember this man from somewhere or another. Friend of Harry’s? No, as little as they see each other he doubts she would talk about him much, let alone to someone John couldn’t remember ever meeting. Perhaps they’d met somewhere during John’s schooling or training, but...no. No, he’d definitely remember him. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how…?”

The man rolls his eyes, though it’s hard to miss the self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Only curious. It’s too bad about your shoulder. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Before John can reply, the man is gone. He’s just walked off to talk to someone else, leaving John alone once more in a sea of strangers. He’s forced to make small talk with someone he met once in training here or there, and introduce himself to nearly a dozen people by answering the question “So, how do you know Mike?” over and over again. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. He’s only been back for a few weeks, he’s still adjusting to “civilian life” according to his therapist, and he has this damn cane slowing him down. Well, he supposes it’s more the limp that slows him down, but he prefers to blame the cane. It makes him feel ancient.

Somewhere between the small talk and searching for whatever alcohol he could get his hands on, John looks for the man from before. He wants to know what prompted him to ask a question like that. He hadn’t even said hello, he’d simply approached him with an unnervingly smug look and dropped the bombshell, so to speak. John’s not sure if he wants to tell him off for disappearing like that, or to shake his hand and have a refreshing chat that didn’t end with the both of them awkwardly sipping at their wine and pretending to have seen an old friend across the room so they could escape the conversation. Perhaps he was a soldier, as well. John’s had that experience before, with others claiming to know “the look” and taking a guess based on that and the use of his cane. They usually assume he was shot in the leg, though, since that would make the most sense. John has no idea what prompted that man to mention his shoulder. 

John only finds him after he’s nearly given up looking. He'd headed outside for a break and a breath of fresh air, only to end up breathing in a puff of smoke trailing from a cigarette perched between long, pale fingers. John recognizes him by his curls, first, and his suspicions are confirmed when he gets a glance at the man’s profile. 

“Come out for a smoke, or for me?” the man asks, before John’s even reached him. 

“Neither,” John replies honestly, since he’d had no idea the other was out here. He stops walking when he’s just beside the man, though they both have their eyes up toward the London skyline. “Just for a breather. The cane gave me away, didn’t it?””

The man nods, his lips curling back into a smirk as he lifts the cigarette back up to his lips. “I don’t often smoke anymore, it’s difficult to sustain the habit in London these days. Events like this, though...not sure why I even came. Perhaps to maintain the dull image of being polite.”

John shakes his head to himself. This man makes no sense, yet he’s so bluntly honest that there’s not really anything left to figure out. He decides not to comment and presses on before he can disappear again. “What you said before--”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve come to scold me. It was only an observation, and not a very sensitive one, either. At least, I don’t think so.” For once, the man sounds unsure, as if there’s a chance John’s actually angry at him.

“What? No, I’m not here to lecture a man I’ve just met. I just wanted to know how you knew.”

The stranger perks up a bit at that, finally turning his head to look over at John. He has to look down a bit, considering their height difference, and John catches a spark in his eyes. “Well, it’s obvious. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself...it says military. You have a tan, but when you reached for your wine I saw that you have no tan above the wrists. Served abroad, then, someplace warm. Sunny. You have a limp, but you’ve stayed standing since you arrived at this atrocious dinner party. It doesn’t pain you, it’s like you’ve forgotten about it. Psychosomatic injury, I assume. Your therapist would agree. Wounded in action, then. Served abroad, wounded in action...Afghanistan or Iraq.”

He says it all so fast and with such certainty that John is left standing there, quite amazed. “My therapist?” he prompts, not sure he can compose himself enough to say much more.

“You’ve just come back from active duty with a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist.” The man lets the cigarette fall from his fingers and crushes it beneath the heel of a well-polished dress shoe. He turns, as if preparing to walk away, but then John says it:

“Brilliant.”

The stranger stops in his tracks, tentatively turning back toward John. “What did you just say?”  
“Brilliant. That was...fantastic, how you figured all that out.”  
Something’s changed about him. John would guess that he’s a man with many walls, but one of them has come down, he can tell. “Hungry?” the other asks suddenly, beginning to button his coat.

“What?”

“There’s an Italian place just a few streets over from here. I know the owner, you won’t have to pay.”

Yet again, John’s surprised by him. “There’s at least two dozen people just in there eating finger foods Mike’s having catered, and you want me to walk off with you, a man I hardly know, to get dinner?”

“Mm, yes. Problem?” he asks, one infuriatingly graceful brow raised at John. It almost feels like a challenge.

“I don’t even know your name,”

“Sherlock Holmes. Shall we go now?”

John hesitates, glancing between the building behind them and the man beside him. Sherlock. A strange man he’s never met before, who wants John to walk off with him through the haphazardly lit streets of London at half past ten o’clock at night. 

He’s not sure if it’s the wine or his piqued interest, but the word "yes" leaves his mouth before he can think about it any longer.

Sherlock grins a bit, the first open-mouthed smile John has seen him give that night. It makes him feel special, somehow. Sherlock seems to consider beckoning over the first cab he sees passing them on the street, but changes his mind and begins walking down the sidewalk with a certain determination. 

John’s cane barely hits the ground as he follows, unconsciously relying a bit less on the damn thing than he has been since his injury. “How do you know Mike?” he asks, but the look he receives from Sherlock tells him that he’s heard that question just as many times as John had that night, and the ex-army doctor changes his mind. “Never mind that, actually. But I am curious about you, considering you’ve already guessed so much about me.”

 

“I didn’t guess, I saw. But if you must know about me, you’re free to ask questions but I will not be composing a verbal autobiography for you to assess.”

 

They cross the street far quicker than John ever does, even when some driver takes pity on the man with the cane. It’s almost as if Sherlock commands the traffic with his presence. He does have something about him that demands respect, though John isn’t sure what it is. It certainly isn’t his social graces. 

“What do you do?” John asks, wondering what sort of profession a man like him would enter.

“I’m a consulting detective,” comes the reply, so quickly that John can tell he’s had to explain his job before. In fact, he doesn’t even have to look over at John’s questioning expression before he continues on. “The police come to me when they’re out of their depth, which is nearly always, and I help them. Throw them a line, so to speak, if the case is too dull to keep my attention. The interesting ones, though-- the really good ones, I’ll solve myself. Keeps me busy. I get bored often. It’s quite dangerous, at times. Downright deadly.” Sherlock’s gaze flickers over to John, and John swears he can detect a sly smile pulling at the opposite corner of his mouth. “Does that bother you?”

Sherlock has the air of a scientist testing out a hypothesis and that of an inexperienced teenager asking a girl to his first high school dance all at once. John, for some reason, can’t bear to let him down.

 

“Not at all,” he hums, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t ask more questions just yet. He almost likes keeping Sherlock Holmes a bit of a mystery, at least for a while. He just walks with him in the relative quiet as the business hours of even the central part of the city come to an end. It’s strange, though, because John notices things. He notices a rather suspicious exchange in a dim side alley they walk by that he never would have paid much mind to. He notices a black cab with a sign that’s a digit short of a proper identification number, with no passengers in the back, though it passes right by a couple of waiting pedestrians. He even notices the slight movement of a security camera they pass by, and is a bit unsettled by it for a reason he can’t quite pin down. It’s like his mind is more alert around him, either trying to compete or simply attempting to keep up with the apparent genius. 

They enter a small Italian cafe and Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat before removing his coat and taking up a spot by the window. He gestures for John to sit, and he does, his eyes locked on Sherlock. “Have you tried getting a proper job with the police? If they turned you down before, I’m sure they…”

Sherlock interrupts him with a little snort of disbelief. He looks a bit insulted, even. “As much as they complain about my habits, they would love to have me on their payroll, I’m certain. I’m just not interested.”

It’s John’s turn to smirk, and add ‘massive ego’ to the small list of things he knows about this man. “If you’re so good, tell me what else you see when you look at me,” he says, leaning over the table a bit in interest. He’s sure Sherlock won’t be able to turn down the opportunity to show off. 

The detective takes the bait, his eyes intently searching over John for a few moments before he speaks again. “You don’t sleep well,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue as easily as if he were reading the words in print right in front of him. “Signs of bags under your eyes and some darkening suggest several restless nights. Mostly likely, memories of your military service are prone to returning to you at night, making it difficult to get any proper sleep. You sleep alone, as well. Rather, you live alone. You didn’t bring anyone to Mike’s party even though you clearly dislike being alone at such events, suggesting you’re not currently close enough to anyone to request them to be your plus one. If you’re not comfortable inviting someone to a trivial dinner party, surely you don’t share your home with them. You’re generally a confident man, but incredibly insecure about the use of your cane. Perhaps it interrupts a certain image of yourself you prefer to give off. You don’t particularly have a type, considering the amount of women you attempted flirting with at the party. Dilated pupils, standing unnecessarily closely, showing excessive interest in everything they say…”

Sherlock trails off. By now, John is leaning even closer, his chair scooted in close to the table to allow him to drink in each word. He can tell Sherlock was starting with the basics, perhaps working up to some grand finale, but he finds every minor observation fascinating. Sherlock seems caught off guard by something, but before either of them speak, a hand comes between them and puts something on the table.

“A candle, for you and your date,” comes a voice, low but cheery. John blinks and comes out of the slight trance he’s been in as he looks up to the man beside the table. He has a half-apron around his waist and slightly greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s grinning proudly at Sherlock, though John can’t tell if he’s proud of Sherlock for having a supposed date, or proud of himself for thinking up the idea of putting a little candle right in the middle of their table. 

“I’m not his--” John scrambles to say, but Sherlock’s voice is the one that commands the attention, just like the rest of him, as the other man responds.

“Thank you, Angelo. John will need a moment with the menu,” he says calmly, quite composed. 

John can’t remember ever giving out his name, he realizes suddenly. Thinking back over everything he’s said, he’s actually quite sure he hasn’t. 

Sherlock asked about him. No matter how brilliant you are, John’s sure you can’t guess a person’s name just by looking at them. Sherlock Holmes asked someone about him, most likely Mike. He’d grabbed his attention on purpose earlier. Hooked John on the line and walked away, leaving the soldier reeling after him. 

The bastard.

The clever, handsome bastard. 

“How early in the night did you decide you were going to ask me to dinner?” John asks, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

“Approximately five seconds after our initial conversation by the refreshments,” Sherlock answers calmly, though John is sure there’s a flicker of nervousness hidden somewhere in that stoic face. 

“And how early on did you figure out that I’d say yes?”

“When I caught you searching the room and failing to maintain interest in any of the women you were chatting with.”

John’s silent for a moment, lips pursed, questioning himself in silence for a few long moments before his eyes land on the small matchbox Angelo left beside the candle. He picks it up, his typically shaking hands steady as a rock as he strikes one against the side of the box and lights the candle. 

John doesn’t have to say anything. He knows Sherlock understands, especially after a genuine grin comes across his companion’s face. 

Sherlock watches the slight dance of the flame, watches as John sets the matchbox down and follows his gaze up from the candle until their eyes find each other in the warm light. He seems out of his comfort zone, but his gaze remains steady as he poses a question. 

“How long must one wait before requesting a second date?”


End file.
